The Book Thief by Markus Zusak Read Free Book Online Page B

implicit in his tone that suggested something along the
lines of, “What the hell does it look like?” The tone vanished, however, when
he saw the sleep deprivation whittled under his father’s eyes.
    “Jesse Owens?”
Mr. Steiner was the type of man who was very wooden. His voice was angular and
true. His body was tall and heavy, like oak. His hair was like splinters. “What
about him?”
    “You know, Papa,
the Black Magic one.”
    “I’ll give
you
black magic.” He caught his son’s ear between his thumb and forefinger.
    Rudy winced.
“Ow, that really hurts.”
    “Does it?” His
father was more concerned with the clammy texture of charcoal contaminating his
fingers. He covered everything, didn’t he? he thought. It’s even in his ears,
for God’s sake. “Come on.”
    On the way home,
Mr. Steiner decided to talk politics with the boy as best he could. Only in the
years ahead would Rudy understand it all— when it was too late to bother
understanding anything.
    THE
CONTRADICTORY POLITICS
     
    OF ALEX STEINER
     
    Point One:
He was a member of the Nazi Party, but he did not
     
    hate the Jews, or anyone else for that matter.
     
    Point Two:
Secretly, though, he couldn’t help feeling a
     
    percentage of relief (or worse—gladness!) when
     
    Jewish shop owners were put out of business—
     
    propaganda informed him that it was only a matter of
     
    time before a plague of Jewish tailors showed up
     
    and stole his customers.
     
    Point Three:
But did that mean they should be driven
     
    out completely?
     
    Point Four:
His family. Surely, he had to do whatever he
     
    could to support them. If that meant being in the party,
     
    it meant being in the party.
     
    Point Five:
Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his
     
    heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of
     
    what might come leaking out.
    They walked
around a few corners onto Himmel Street, and Alex said, “Son, you can’t go
around painting yourself black, you hear?”
    Rudy was
interested, and confused. The moon was undone now, free to move and rise and
fall and drip on the boy’s face, making him nice and murky, like his thoughts.
“Why not, Papa?”
    “Because they’ll
take you away.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you
shouldn’t want to be like black people or Jewish people or anyone who is . . .
not
us.
”
    “Who are Jewish
people?”
    “You know my
oldest customer, Mr. Kaufmann? Where we bought your shoes?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, he’s
Jewish.”
    “I didn’t know
that. Do you have to pay to be Jewish? Do you need a license?”
    “No, Rudy.” Mr.
Steiner was steering the bike with one hand and Rudy with the other. He was
having trouble steering the conversation. He still hadn’t relinquished the hold
on his son’s earlobe. He’d forgotten about it. “It’s like you’re German or
Catholic.”
    “Oh. Is Jesse
Owens Catholic?”
    “
I
don’t
know!” He tripped on a bike pedal then and released the ear.
    They walked on
in silence for a while, until Rudy said, “I just wish I was like Jesse Owens,
Papa.”
    This time, Mr.
Steiner placed his hand on Rudy’s head and explained, “I know, son—but you’ve
got beautiful blond hair and big, safe blue eyes. You should be happy with
that; is that clear?”
    But nothing was
clear.
    Rudy understood
nothing, and that night was the prelude of things to come. Two and a half years
later, the Kaufmann Shoe Shop was reduced to broken glass, and all the shoes
were flung aboard a truck in their boxes.

     
     
    THE OTHER SIDE OF SANDPAPER
    People have
defining moments, I suppose, especially when they’re children. For some it’s a
Jesse Owens incident. For others it’s a moment of bed-wetting hysteria:
    It was late May
1939, and the night had been like most others. Mama shook her iron fist. Papa
was out. Liesel cleaned the front door and watched the Himmel Street sky.
    Earlier, there
had been a parade.
    The